Poetry
![Kai Cheng Thom - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BRWYPWLR.jpg)
Falling Back in Love with Being Human: Letters to Lost Souls
What happens when we imagine loving the people-and the parts of ourselves-that we do not believe are worthy of love?
A transformative collection of intimate and lyrical love letters that offer a path toward compassion, forgiveness, and self-acceptance.
New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice • "Required reading."-Glennon Doyle
Kai Cheng Thom grew up a Chinese Canadian transgender girl in a hostile world. As an activist, psychotherapist, conflict mediator, and spiritual healer, she's always pursued the same deeply personal mission: to embrace the revolutionary belief that every human being, no matter how hateful or horrible, is intrinsically sacred.
But then Kai Cheng found herself in a crisis of faith, overwhelmed by the viciousness with which people treated one another, and barely clinging to the values and ideals she'd built her life around: justice, hope, love, and healing. Rather than succumb to despair and cynicism, she gathered all her rage and grief and took one last leap of faith: she wrote. Whether prayers or spells or poems-and whether there's a difference-she wrote to affirm the outcasts and runaways she calls her kin. She wrote to flawed but nonetheless lovable men, to people with good intentions who harm their own, to racists and transphobes seemingly beyond saving. What emerged was a blueprint for falling back in love with being human.
A transformative collection of intimate and lyrical love letters that offer a path toward compassion, forgiveness, and self-acceptance.
New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice • "Required reading."-Glennon Doyle
Kai Cheng Thom grew up a Chinese Canadian transgender girl in a hostile world. As an activist, psychotherapist, conflict mediator, and spiritual healer, she's always pursued the same deeply personal mission: to embrace the revolutionary belief that every human being, no matter how hateful or horrible, is intrinsically sacred.
But then Kai Cheng found herself in a crisis of faith, overwhelmed by the viciousness with which people treated one another, and barely clinging to the values and ideals she'd built her life around: justice, hope, love, and healing. Rather than succumb to despair and cynicism, she gathered all her rage and grief and took one last leap of faith: she wrote. Whether prayers or spells or poems-and whether there's a difference-she wrote to affirm the outcasts and runaways she calls her kin. She wrote to flawed but nonetheless lovable men, to people with good intentions who harm their own, to racists and transphobes seemingly beyond saving. What emerged was a blueprint for falling back in love with being human.
Editorial Reviews
"Required reading for the untamed soul . . . In these tender and revolutionary poems and prompts, Kai Cheng Thom promises that there is no part of ourselves beyond saving. The collection reminded me how to love others and myself."-Glennon Doyle, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Untamed
"Kai Cheng Thom embodies revolutionary love. She shows us how to love others bravely, even those hostile to us, as a way to heal our own tender hearts. Her poems are vivid love letters, confrontations, invitations. This tiny collection contains all the wounds and caresses in the world."-Valarie Kaur, author of See No Stranger
"Kai Cheng Thom's new collection is a tender incantation against the failures of hope. In these letters, Thom reaches toward lost souls of all kinds: outlaws, movement martyrs, fellow trans femmes of color, and ‘the ones this world was never made for,' to whom she sends poems that read like prayers, rituals to lay down our collective hurts. What is most astonishing, however, is the way Thom refuses to turn away from those who have inflicted harm, writing: ‘the world i dream of is big enough for both of us.' I am grateful for these spells and balms, for the worlds of generosity this book dares into being."-Franny Choi, author of The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On
"Heartrending . . . Thom's unvarnished honesty and earnestness immediately draws readers in. . . . This fierce and tender volume leaves a mark."-Publishers Weekly, starred review
"Kai Cheng Thom embodies revolutionary love. She shows us how to love others bravely, even those hostile to us, as a way to heal our own tender hearts. Her poems are vivid love letters, confrontations, invitations. This tiny collection contains all the wounds and caresses in the world."-Valarie Kaur, author of See No Stranger
"Kai Cheng Thom's new collection is a tender incantation against the failures of hope. In these letters, Thom reaches toward lost souls of all kinds: outlaws, movement martyrs, fellow trans femmes of color, and ‘the ones this world was never made for,' to whom she sends poems that read like prayers, rituals to lay down our collective hurts. What is most astonishing, however, is the way Thom refuses to turn away from those who have inflicted harm, writing: ‘the world i dream of is big enough for both of us.' I am grateful for these spells and balms, for the worlds of generosity this book dares into being."-Franny Choi, author of The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On
"Heartrending . . . Thom's unvarnished honesty and earnestness immediately draws readers in. . . . This fierce and tender volume leaves a mark."-Publishers Weekly, starred review
Readers Top Reviews
kathleen g
What a surprise this was. It's a beautifully written sometimes painful series of letters written by the author to people she's known throughout her life- as well as to herself. She's struggled and soared with more issues than most of us can imagine. She was a sex worker-and writes to her clients. She's trans- and she writes to transphobic people. She's so many things and she's so relatable. This is all about first acknowledging and then letting go of anger but in no way is it angry. Thanks to Netgalley for the ARC. Highly recommend.
Short Excerpt Teaser
to the ones whose bodies shall shake the heavens
after Sandy Stone
dear trans women: the only way to live as a being cast as irrevocably monstrous is to embrace a monster's power. the power to inspire awe, horror, unbidden desire. a monster is a creature made of the truth no one else dares to speak. a monster is a being beyond fear. dear trans women: when they come bearing torches, remember that you are a being born of flame. and every moment you love yourself is a moment they can never take from you. dear trans women: we are the original witches. the reincarnations of the ones they burned. lesser outcasts will turn against you to save themselves; forgive them, for they know not what they do. never forget that a lineage of monstresses stands behind you, and stands proud. dear trans women: blessed are the hideous. blessed are the horrifying. blessed are the cursed. blessed are the unforgiven, the forgotten, the ones-who-must-not-be-loved. blessed are the mad, for our bodies shall shake the heavens.
Without looking at a dictionary, define the word monster.
to a lost sister
i stopped writing poems for a year after it happened. i didn't believe in them anymore because they didn't save your life. i'm not a praying woman, but poetry has always been my hotline to the universe. i guess that somewhere deep inside, i hoped that if i said something elegantly enough, it would come true. that if i spoke the language of beauty, maybe God would finally start listening. are you there, God? it's me, f***ed-up transsexual with a savior complex. i'd like you to turn back time. if i could just go back once, i'm sure i could change the past for the better. did you know that the word abracadabra comes from a Hebrew phrase meaning "through speaking, i create"? i bet you do. my magic was never strong enough to manifest the miracles i wanted: to turn back time. to undo harm. to make the unspeakable things safe to say. to catch a spirit as it flies out of this world and weave it back into the body it left behind. what's the use of writing poems if they can't even do that? i wish i could talk to you. i've been wanting to tell you that complex PTSD and a crisis of faith have so much in common. they're both about losing trust in the world in the wake of unbearable loss. grief tears us away from our faith, but it's grief that brings us back as well. because in our deepest grief we have nowhere else to go. the Buddhist part of me knows that in the paradox, enlightenment is born. when you fell through a crack in the world and disappeared, i started meditating again. i lit candles every night. i tied a red rope around my waist before sleeping-anything to give my grief somewhere to go. for a year after it happened, i dreamed about getting lost in mazes and screaming without a voice, knowing that no one was coming to save me. but the Christian part of me knew that the secret of grace is choosing to believe. the secret of resilience is the art of surrender. i wish you were here. i'd tell you all the things i've learned about hope, and forgiveness, and holding on while letting go. our world keeps breaking, over and over again. i have no choice but to believe that a new one is being born.
Write a prayer of hope on a piece of paper and leave it somewhere for someone else to find.
to the ones who didn't cry
when i first heard that the gunman had walked into three massage parlors in Atlanta and shot eight people dead, six of whom were Asian women, i did not cry. i went to bed and slept without dreaming, an instrument with its strings cut. it wasn't until the morning after, as i watched the news, as i heard the white police officer say that the shooter was "fed up," that he'd had "a really bad day," that i felt my body break open and the words came pouring out like a rainstorm. like lava, like fire pouring out from deep within. tell me about the pain of a body that knows its life means nothing. i am learning more and more about what that means. i know i'm not alone in the least. i want to hear the stories of gun violence, police brutality, and racism. i want to know the truth even as it rips me apart like a land mine. for weeks after the shooting, whenever i tried to talk about it, i found myself weeping instead. i think the truth was choking me as it tried to find a way out of my throat. i want to tell you about the white man who used to pay me for massages. i want to tell you how he said he had a sex addiction, how he became obsessed with me, how i couldn't tell anyone because they'd say it was my fault for choosing the job i did. when i saw the Asian advocacy groups talking about how it was wro...
after Sandy Stone
dear trans women: the only way to live as a being cast as irrevocably monstrous is to embrace a monster's power. the power to inspire awe, horror, unbidden desire. a monster is a creature made of the truth no one else dares to speak. a monster is a being beyond fear. dear trans women: when they come bearing torches, remember that you are a being born of flame. and every moment you love yourself is a moment they can never take from you. dear trans women: we are the original witches. the reincarnations of the ones they burned. lesser outcasts will turn against you to save themselves; forgive them, for they know not what they do. never forget that a lineage of monstresses stands behind you, and stands proud. dear trans women: blessed are the hideous. blessed are the horrifying. blessed are the cursed. blessed are the unforgiven, the forgotten, the ones-who-must-not-be-loved. blessed are the mad, for our bodies shall shake the heavens.
Without looking at a dictionary, define the word monster.
to a lost sister
i stopped writing poems for a year after it happened. i didn't believe in them anymore because they didn't save your life. i'm not a praying woman, but poetry has always been my hotline to the universe. i guess that somewhere deep inside, i hoped that if i said something elegantly enough, it would come true. that if i spoke the language of beauty, maybe God would finally start listening. are you there, God? it's me, f***ed-up transsexual with a savior complex. i'd like you to turn back time. if i could just go back once, i'm sure i could change the past for the better. did you know that the word abracadabra comes from a Hebrew phrase meaning "through speaking, i create"? i bet you do. my magic was never strong enough to manifest the miracles i wanted: to turn back time. to undo harm. to make the unspeakable things safe to say. to catch a spirit as it flies out of this world and weave it back into the body it left behind. what's the use of writing poems if they can't even do that? i wish i could talk to you. i've been wanting to tell you that complex PTSD and a crisis of faith have so much in common. they're both about losing trust in the world in the wake of unbearable loss. grief tears us away from our faith, but it's grief that brings us back as well. because in our deepest grief we have nowhere else to go. the Buddhist part of me knows that in the paradox, enlightenment is born. when you fell through a crack in the world and disappeared, i started meditating again. i lit candles every night. i tied a red rope around my waist before sleeping-anything to give my grief somewhere to go. for a year after it happened, i dreamed about getting lost in mazes and screaming without a voice, knowing that no one was coming to save me. but the Christian part of me knew that the secret of grace is choosing to believe. the secret of resilience is the art of surrender. i wish you were here. i'd tell you all the things i've learned about hope, and forgiveness, and holding on while letting go. our world keeps breaking, over and over again. i have no choice but to believe that a new one is being born.
Write a prayer of hope on a piece of paper and leave it somewhere for someone else to find.
to the ones who didn't cry
when i first heard that the gunman had walked into three massage parlors in Atlanta and shot eight people dead, six of whom were Asian women, i did not cry. i went to bed and slept without dreaming, an instrument with its strings cut. it wasn't until the morning after, as i watched the news, as i heard the white police officer say that the shooter was "fed up," that he'd had "a really bad day," that i felt my body break open and the words came pouring out like a rainstorm. like lava, like fire pouring out from deep within. tell me about the pain of a body that knows its life means nothing. i am learning more and more about what that means. i know i'm not alone in the least. i want to hear the stories of gun violence, police brutality, and racism. i want to know the truth even as it rips me apart like a land mine. for weeks after the shooting, whenever i tried to talk about it, i found myself weeping instead. i think the truth was choking me as it tried to find a way out of my throat. i want to tell you about the white man who used to pay me for massages. i want to tell you how he said he had a sex addiction, how he became obsessed with me, how i couldn't tell anyone because they'd say it was my fault for choosing the job i did. when i saw the Asian advocacy groups talking about how it was wro...
